Scorekeeper by Ray B. West Jr. Author This is Ray B. West, Jr.'s first year as adviser of Scribulus, as it is his first year at Weber. Last year he held the position of graduate assistant in English at the University of Iowa. He was at the time on leave from the B. A. C. where he taught for three years. He is editor and founder of the "Rocky Mountain Review." Piggy and Harry were standing together before the tall pillered portals of the Lafayette school. Piggy was plunking a baseball into the soft, new-oiled pocket of his fielding mitt. Harry had his legs crossed, and he was knocking the mud from the run-over heels of his shoes with a bright yellow bat. He had an old battered mitt strapped onto his belt. "Gee, Piggy," he said. "I wisht my old man'd buy me a new mitt an' a bat like this'n." He pulled himself up straight, and threw the bat over his shoulder, took one or two quick flourishes, then stepped forward and swung with all his might. He shielded his eyes with one hand and followed the imaginary flight of the ball. "There goes another'n in the stands for old Dolph," he said. "Camilli's smacker another'n." Piggy threw the ball into the air and caught it as it came down. "No he didn't," he said, turning and holding out the new white ball. "I'm Medwick, see. It looked like a homer all right, but it wasn't. Ducky backed up, and he shot one arm into the air. He came down with the ball. See. Here it is." He held the ball out for Harry to see. "Ye're crazy, Piggy," Harry said. "How could Medwick've caught Camilli's homer. They're both Dodgers. How could he, huh?" Piggy turned red. Of course, he'd forgotten. He was sorry he'd said it. Harry knew all the players on the teams, and Piggy wanted to know them just as well as Harry did. He'd never been able to play as well as Harry, none of the kids at the Lafayette could, but he thought he could know the players just as well. He ought to be able to, he could remember dates in history better than Harry, and the times-tables. Still he couldn't remember the players, even if he did listen to the world series, every game except Sunday, and he missed the first part of that, because his father wouldn't turn off the "Church of the Air" on another station. "Here comes foe!" Harry shouted, pointing with the bat. Hi-ya, Joe, where the hell ya been?" He turned to Piggy. "Now we can start havin' battin' practice." Joe was lean and long, with willowy arms that reached almost to his knees. He stood half a head taller than either Piggy or Harry. He walked with a kind of slouch, both knees bent. He couldn't field and he couldn't bat, but he certainly could shine that old apple down across the plate. Piggy wasn't as anxious as Harry for the whole team to come. If only eight of them came, say, then he'd be sure to get a chance to play. Harry was his best friend, and Harry let him play every chance there was, but he couldn't field like the rest of the kids. He guessed it was because he was always afraid he might break his glasses. He wished that he could. When he was alone at home, he imagined that he could. He imagined they were out there playing the Whittier School, and Rogue Belden pasted a nasty one to him along the ground. He could see himself scooping it up smoothly out of the dirt the way Harry did. He would throw with an easy motion to first, catching the runner by several feet. "An easy out," he imagined everyone saying. "That Piggy Renshaw can really play ball." Hi-ya, Piggy. Gee, whatcha got? Another new mitt?" He took the clean new glove and bent it carefully, inspecting the leather. "Holly hell!" he said whistling. "A real Joe Gordon. How much did it set-ya back?" (continued on page 8) Page Six PIGGY by J. Heslop Page Seven